Signature
by varietyofwords
Summary: Chuck and Blair. Oneshot. AU (alternative S3). Limoversary. "The scarf's my signature, and it's chilly." "I'll show you chilly. Take it off, Bass." "Shouldn't you at least offer me a drink first? Not all of us are comfortable showing off our moves without a little liquid courage."


**Author's Note: **This is my response to the sixth prompt for the sixth Limoversary – "What if?" – in which I ask "What if Blair had gone to Yale University?". You should know, though, that everything I learned about Yale I learned from Rory Gilmore.

* * *

The time of year when the days grow shorter and colder, when fallen leaves of orange and yellow are crushed under leather boots and spiced lattes are hurriedly sipped during hurried walks across the quad to and from class. The time of year when crimson-colored items are shoved to the back of closets and campus is painted in tried and true blue, when alumni spanning several generations descend upon campus ready to defend the ranking and prestige of their alma mater from the stands and with their pocketbooks.

Those students on scholarship cram themselves into in the stands of the stadium with stomachs full of free pizza provided by the undergraduate student council and cheap beer provided by upperclassmen. The wealthier ones among them – the ones coming from a long line of legacies – park their luxury cars in the parking lot and enjoy gourmet lunches on picnic tables covered in tablecloths – blue, of course – as their parents and grandparents size up old rivals and discuss in barely hushed voices about the scandalous lives of Yale's elite.

And then there are those students who enjoy brunch at New Haven's hottest restaurant – the one taking reservations months out from now – and only spend the briefest of moments standing outside in the cold tailgating with the masses solely because of the importance of seeing and being seen, because of the importance of keeping a tight, iron first around the ruling class. The ones who show off their school spirit by dressing in perfectly matched blue cashmere rather than sweatshirts from the university bookstore or, in her case, a headband and tights dyed that the signature blue color. The big bow atop her head showing not just allegiance to her university, but instead acting as a beacon of attraction for wayward souls in need of a leader.

Minions dressed in poor imitations of her attire cluster around her vying for a closer spot to the queen as they sip champagne from glass flukes provided by her maid. The woman who visits more often than a job on the Upper East Side should allow her is no longer dressed in her pressed and starched uniform but rather in a blue coat and a scarf dotted with Yale's insignia. Men with self-fashioned titles of important dressed in preppy blue blazers and khakis vying for her favor by discussing stock options and plans for law school with her father or by playing with Handsome, her pet bulldog visiting from Manhattan for the occasion and appropriately dressed in a blue sweater with a large 'Y' insignia stitched across the back.

Every one of them pausing in their conversations and their dimwitted schemes as the sleek, black limo pulls up to stop right in front of them, as the window rolls downs and dark, devious eyes peer out at them. Every one of them watching with wide eyes as she stands up a little straighter, as she meets the smirk of the man seated in the backseat of the limo with one of her own.

"Don't you need a car for tailgating, Waldorf? Or, were you waiting for my arrival? I know how much you love a limo."

Her cheeks flush a color far too similar to the one that has been banished for the day, and the smarmy smirk falls from his face as her father interjects his own greeting onto the ending of his, as Roman's eyes twinkle with laughter in a way Harold Waldorf does not appreciate. But he recovers quickly – always a smooth and suave businessman – and exits the limo with one hand extended in greeting to Harold and Roman and another pressed against his chest to keep the scarf draped around his neck from dancing in the autumn wind.

An attention to detail that only serves to make her eyes narrow, to contort her face into the sharp look of disapproval the minions and men clustered around her know far too well. Every one of them scrambling to find an excuse to leave before the bark of dismissal can come; every one of them watching with bated breath as she makes her way through the parting crowd to stand before the newest arrival to their circle.

"Bass, what are you wearing?"

Her voice is a hissed accusation of betrayal because the red and white blocks are far too close to crimson and the blue is far too dark to be counted as an expression of support for her. Yes, her because she is Yale and Yale is Blair Waldorf. Her father seems almost proud of her demanding tone – a kiss pressed against the crown of her head along with words about his Blair Bear bleeding blue like a true Yalie and a true Waldorf before allowing Roman to drag him off to conduct introductions between him and yet another notable alum with parting words about how they will see her and Charles inside.

"The scarf's my signature," Chuck replies to her mocking tone, to her insistence that he take if off right this instance. "And it's chilly."

"I'll show you chilly. Take it off, Bass."

"Shouldn't you at least offer me a drink first?" He asks as cups her jaw, as he runs his thumb along the length of her jaw until her eyes flutter open and close. "Not all of us are comfortable showing off our moves without a little liquid courage."

The hard kick against his shin causes him to choke on his words, to gasp for air as she grabs the collar of his shirt and pulls him closer to her. Yet the smirk returns because he knows exactly how to push her buttons, how to egg her on until she's schooling him on how superior Yale is to all other universities and he knew just what he was doing when he donned his signature scarf this morning.

"Where did _U.S. News and World Report_ rank Yale this year? Third, wasn't it? I'm Chuck Bass. I only support winn—"

"I hate you."

Laughter escapes through his smile over the way her face flushes crimson with anger, over the way she immediately seizes on the three words, eight letters and then forgets those exact sentiments when his lips brush against hers. Far from reeling back in shock, she leans into the moment, into the heat and the fire fueled by his teasing words and hooks her fingers into the fabric of the offending scarf.

The same scarf she pulls off from around his neck when the loudspeaker interrupts with the announcement that kickoff begins in mere moments, when Dorota clears her throat as people start streaming towards the stadium. She waves it before him triumphantly moving out of his grasp when his fingers curl around her waist with a shriek, stepping backwards when he moves to snatch the scarf out of her hand.

"Yale is far superior to Princeton or Harvard, Bass," she corrects recycling old arguments from when the latest university rankings were released and she spent the evening correcting the stupidity of the editors at _U.S. News and World Report_ for a private audience of one. "Yale offers more majors than Harvard, has more alumni with Pulitzer Prizes, has a higher average SAT score, and—"

"Was smart enough to admit Blair Waldorf over Nelly Yuki," he replies as he steps towards her, as he curls his fingers about her waist, as he admires the way talking about Yale gets her so very, very—

He teases her further by inquiring how standing around drinking cheap beer before the game contributes to the prestige of Yale University, offers her the opportunity to teach him more about this time honored tradition and punish him for his error in wearing the colors of Yale's archrival by 'tailgating' with him in the limo. And she hesitates for just a moment because Daddy and Roman flew all the way from Paris to spend her first Yale homecoming with her, but he snatches the scarf from her hand, begins murmuring about how crimson looks better on her than blue as he loops it around her neck, and she cannot not allow such a slight to go unpunished.

The scarf pulled from around her neck and tied around his hands; looped and knotted so he has no choice to follow her and ignore the horrifically scandalized look Dorota throws after them or the barks of Handsome the Bulldog as Blair drags him off towards the limo. The back door of the limo open and shut as he is shoved into the seat; the partition lowered and raised with instructions for them not to be disturbed as she straddles his hips.

"Yale grants a degree in theatre studies. Harvard does not," she hisses as his entwined hands side against thighs clad in blue tights, as her fingers hook onto the fabric of his coat and her head dips until their lips are just millimeters apart.

And then she leans in allowing his lips to press against hers, allowing his tongue to part and press against hers in a bold enticement. But then she backs away leaving him hungry and desperate for more as she rocks her hips against him, as she shifts against and then away from his tied hands.

"Yale has a smaller faculty-to-student ratio than Harvard," she reminds him as she shifts closer to him once more. His right thigh allowed to wedge between hers; his lips allowed to find the throbbing pulse point at the nape of her neck. The press of his lips, the nip of his teeth sending a sharp thrill cascading down her spine; delicious heat spreading in its wake and racing to pool low in her belly.

And then she breaks contact between them again by shifting away so she can tell him more about how superior Yale is over all the other Ivies. She shifts back again and presses herself against the ridging front of his pants so she can keep more than his hands in the binds of his scarf at her mercy.

Every lean forward for a kiss rewarded with a slow, languorous kiss rather than the passionate, frantic heat he so desires. Every brush of his hands beneath her skirt rewarded with the barrier of blue fabric rather than silky, white skin. Every action and moment more punishing than the one before it.

"Blair," he growls in a gravely rumble because the student has become the master, because her fingers are skimming over the zipper of his pants and making him go mad with desire.

"Four words, fifteen letters. Say it, Bass."

An irritatingly arrogant chuckle released as she presses a kiss against the nape of his neck, as she drags her free hands against his jawline and uses the other to unzip his pants. Smug satisfaction pulls her lips into a smile as he promptly shifts against her, as he struggles against the binds of his scarf. But the removal of her hands against him causes him to cry uncle, to give into her demands because this punishment is quickly becoming the kind he does not like.

"Yale is number one."

His surrender is immediately rewarded – her body shifting off his just long enough to pull down her blue tights and her La Perlas and returning so her hand can slip into the open flap of his pants. Her thumb slides over the blunt head of her erection followed by the rest of her hand sliding on the condom just as his bound hands skim over the wetness between her thighs. A hiss of delight escaping from both their lips at the same time because getting Blair to talk about Yale gets him just as excited as talking about Yale gets Blair.

The sensation of him filling her, stretching her sends both of their eyes closing with breathes catching simultaneously in their throats. Each drawing in a raspy breath before opening their eyes because they need to see each other, need to peer into each other's soul as, inch by slow inch, she eases him into her body.

A battle to keep his eyes open, to focus on her face as the sensation of slick, scalding, tight heat overwhelms him. A fight against the binds of his scarf because he desperately needs to touch her, needs to hold her in place as she backs off of him and holds her hips with just the tip of him inside her.

"See, Bass, blue really is your color."

And then he slips out of the bindings – his rule about always having an escape route during their games serving him well – and curls his hands back around her hips to slide her forward, to encase himself inside her once more and hold her still as every muscle of his body hardens and flexes in greedy celebration.

"It looks better on you, Waldorf," he groans in her ear as she rises up and once again slowly slides down, as she contracts her muscles around his hard length.

A sensation he revels in as his fingers sink deeper into her sink and the breath leaves his body; a sensation he celebrates as one free hand moves to stroke between her thighs just above where they are joined while the other moves to cup her nape and bring her forward to meet his lips.

Each of them gasp, cling, and kiss as their bodies join together, as his fingers slip against her slick, wet heat. One, two, three, four frantic strokes become too much for him, become a surging forward against her as her bruising kisses swallow his cries. And even in his daze, even as he slumps backwards against the seat of the limo, his fingers continue to slip and pinch and tease her right to the edge, right to the part where she finishes with a cry of three words, seven letters.

And now she slumps against him – her hot breathes heating the patch of skin previously protected from the autumn chill by his scarf, her hot sheath still tightening like a glove around him. His arms encircle around her holding her steady as she – loose-limbed, relaxed all over – stirs against him.

"You forgot the most important argument for Yale," He informs her as his lips brush against the mussed blue bow serving as her crown, as a sign of her allegiance to her future alma mater.

"Hmm," she murmurs against his neck. "What?"

"This 'tailgating' tradition? Yale loves a limo just as much as you. Almost like it knew your signature and wanted to share."


End file.
